


Apparel Oft Proclaims

by shirogiku



Series: Root Causes & Shaky Foundations [8]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: 18th Century Nerdery, All The Love For Miranda, Crossdressing Kink, Cute Marrieds, Fluff, Humour, Multi, Pegging, Poetry, Pre-Series, Threesome - F/M/M, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas and Miranda can't resist James's naval uniform. Apparently, neither can James himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apparel Oft Proclaims

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/gifts), [DreamingPagan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [mapped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Miranda pegging Thomas while he fucks James, pretty please? :D
> 
>  **A/N:** Honest-to-god, epigraph-free fluff with a touch of porn thrown in! Enjoy :)

“I should be going,” said James, without much conviction.

 

“Mm,” was Thomas’s well thought-out answer to that.

 

Miranda stretched her back without rising. “Quite.”

 

If walls could talk, they would surely side with the Hamiltons.

 

James tried again, patiently: “I should be getting out of bed.”

 

“Why?” Thomas wondered. “Don’t you like it here?”

 

He sounded - _wounded_ , James thought, and that alone would have been enough to silence him on the subject forever - if not for the roguish gleam in those blue eyes that Thomas had utterly failed to conceal.

 

James shifted experimentally.

 

“Not so fast.” Miranda nudged him back towards the middle. “Don’t you remember anything of Thomas’s scientific method? Tsk, tsk. I had you pegged as a more attentive learner.”

 

Last night, he had had the pleasure of being lectured on the ideal distribution of weight upon a four-poster bed of this size and configuration, which was to say, he had been told that he was _exactly_ what the said bed had been missing in a ten-minute discourse.

 

He fell back on a more tactical approach: “ _The Passions still Predominant will Rule/Ungovern'd, Rude, not Bred in Reason's School_ -”

 

“Oh dear, is there a mention of Darkness somewhere in the next line?” Before James could continue, Thomas did it for him: “ _Our Understanding They with Hardness fill/Cause strong Eruptions, and exert the Spill._ ”

 

“That’s not how it goes,” James muttered, affronted. “You only show respect for poetry when it suits _your_ needs.”

 

“But of course!” And right now, Thomas’s need was to keep James from wearing breeches ever again, it seemed. “What say you, Miranda?”

 

“Your needs are my needs, darling.”

 

James’s first, _modest_ goal was to disentangle himself from the two pairs of legs on his either side, holding fast with equal force. The moment James moved in earnest, as if on a prior agreement, Thomas draped himself across his back and Miranda hooked her ankles around his ankle.

 

So here he was, utterly ensnared and entrapped. “Only _one_ of us is trained not to leave his post under any circumstances.”

 

Oddly enough, neither of his captors was particularly impressed this time. “We admire your discipline beyond measure, James.”

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Thomas whispered in his ear before teasing a tender spot behind it, even as Miranda’s deft fingers glided down his back. His breath stuttered and caught. “We do so love the sight of you in your uniform. Don’t we, my dear?”

 

“Absolutely,” Miranda agreed, now _sitting_ on James’s foot. “It has fuelled many a sleepless night and mathematical theory.” She planted both of her hands on James’s buttocks and gave them a squeeze.

 

“It’s not a _uniform_ ,” James breathed out shakily as the infernal couple continued their ministrations. “It’s just a set of clothing that is right and proper for a naval officer.”

 

That gave Thomas a pause. “England’s weapon most terrible and most grand, and no uniform? Why is that?”

 

Miranda’s finger tapped against James’s tailbone, which still wasn’t enough of a warning for what she did next, making him shudder and groan. “Thomas positively cannot resist a man in a uniform.”

 

“Ah, how the raven doth chide blackness!”

 

James clenched his teeth as the Hamiltons continued pawing at each other like a pair of domestic cats, James utterly helpless all the while.

 

But he had to ask: “Thomas did _what_ in Paris now?”

 

“Wooed a French soldier for his uniform!” Miranda reported, all glee. “It was brilliant, I couldn’t stop laughing for a week!”

 

Thomas huffed. “He had many _other_ winning qualities. Not half as winning as yours, James, rest assured!”

 

James’s wits took a moment to reassemble themselves: “You wooed a man so you could _wear_ his uniform?”

 

“It’s his face, I believe,” Miranda speculated. “ _Any_ uniform would look vaguely ridiculous on him.”

 

An idea began to form. “Well, then - let’s see it.”

 

“Oh, James,” Miranda breathed out, “you cannot mean… _your_ apparel?”

 

He was spelling out his own doom, he knew, but then it was too late - Thomas was already climbing out of bed and finally revealing _where_ he had hidden James’s neckcloth and stockings. This would be the moment to turn the tables - but Miranda’s hand was on the small of his back, her eyes warm and knowing, and what the hell, there was nowhere in the world he would rather be.

 

For his consolation prize, he got Thomas’s abortive attempts at cursing - his botherations and some obscure Latinisms - while fitting himself into a pair of breeches that was never meant for his height.

 

James stared.

 

Thomas had the audacity to _wink_ at him. The waistcoat, he managed to button up, but the neckcloth was truly beyond him.

 

A disgrace, that was what it was.

 

Thomas stood at attention.

 

“You are incredible,” was James’s verdict once he could speak again. “Incredibly _terrible_ , in every sense of the word.”

 

“Which is my point exactly,” said Miranda. “Apparel is rather like a newsheet, it can make a man or make a complete fool out of him.”

 

“What a rogue,” Thomas mock fumed, “it should be brought to order.”

 

Watching Miranda divest Thomas of his ridiculousness was a whole new sort of a performance. And just when James’s throat had gone beyond dry, Thomas asked her:

 

“What would _you_ look like in this, I wonder?” James made a noise. “I daresay you wouldn’t let it run so amok.”

 

Miranda laughed in delight. “Oh, I _always_ appreciate a challenge.”

 

James’s pleas for mercy were well and truly ignored.

 

She pinned up her hair and dressed studiously and methodically, like he would do for a formal occasion or a Sunday service. Not an item was out of place. Thomas wasn’t much help, flaunting Miranda’s floral nightgown bound with taffeta and nothing else.

 

At length, Miranda was satisfied with the neckcloth. “And this is how it is done, my dear uniform-snatcher.”

 

“You leave me with no retorts!”

 

Usually, between the two of them, James’s eyes were inexorably drawn to Thomas, like a compass needle to the magnetic north. But the sight of Miranda standing so tall and proud and severe did things to him.

 

“Lady High Admiral Miranda,” Thomas proclaimed, either reading James's mind or planting the seeds in the welcoming soil. “The Fleet should be so lucky!”

 

“I certainly wouldn’t put up with most of its nonsense,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Now, where is my hat?”

 

Thomas tucked a single feather into her bun, which still did _not_ ruin the impression.

 

“Now, Thomas,” she made the name sound like a rank in its own right, “bring the guns to bare.”

 

“Dear god.” James let his head drop onto the pillow.

 

“What, just like that, without any diplomacy?”

 

James hid under the covers - not very successfully. Suddenly their oversized bed wasn’t _big enough._

 

“You are absolutely right, as an enlightened commodore, I hereby authorise you to carry out the negotiations.”

 

A moment later, there was a nip on James’s ear. “Do you surrender?”

 

“‘ _Bear_ ’,” he managed. “Not ‘bare’.”

 

“He resists!”

 

“Fire one warning shot,” Miranda ordered, with a completely deadpan expression. Christ, that woman’s composure was something else altogether.

 

Thomas planted a kiss between James’s shoulder blades, but that wasn’t the warning shot. The warning shot was a shallow, tantalising thrust, James still loose from the night’s exertions.

 

“Do you surrender now?” Thomas queried, his hands on James’s hips.

 

His knee-jerk reaction was always a _No_ , so that was what he let loose, throwing back his head and staring at Miranda in defiance. Thomas gave it another go, and another, his hands pinching and squeezing and following Miranda’s every whim - the lack of friction was maddening. And as if that weren’t enough, the Hamiltons fell to mangling every last bit of the nautical lingo that they could dredge up.

 

“Stop!” James pleaded. “I yield!”

 

He was rewarded with a rather better aimed thrust, Thomas filling him like caulking filled the seams between the planks. He closed his eyes, pushing and pushing back even when there was no more to take in, but when he reached down to touch himself, Miranda tied his hands with his own neckcloth.

 

“Not yet, my love.” She buried her fingers in his hair and kissed him hard. “Wait for the next act.”

 

The words ‘my love’ froze him until he saw what exactly she had in mind - and oh god, _how_ was he supposed to wear any of that after she was done with him?

 

Miranda chuckled, pleased with herself. “It’s not for you, not this time.” This harness was made of black silk, sitting stark against the white fabric.

 

Thomas maneuvered James onto his back, placing a pillow underneath, the ridiculous man. “So you could see us both.”

 

“I see you both,” James echoed in defeat.

 

Thomas kissed him, but it was Miranda who dictated the pace. Trapping the soft fabric of the nightgown between them, she drove Thomas towards James and into him, leaning down for quick, assertive kisses. Thomas was the loudest, babbling non stop into James’s neck. James kept quiet until he no longer could keep any part of himself under control, a long, protracted moan escaping his lips.

 

Miranda moved a couple more times after Thomas was finished and then dropped beside them, the perspiration covering her skin and that which he vividly remembered soaking the sheets now saturating James’s clothing.

 

It would always smell of her now, and of Thomas also.

 

Thomas nipped at his mouth, triumphant. “No more talk of desertion?”

 

“Talk, what talk? I am speechless.” James kissed his lover soundly and their eyes strayed towards the toy between Miranda’s legs, wondering how soon she could be persuaded to assault James’s senses directly.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem James quotes is [_Reason, a poem_](http://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A55342.0001.001/1:3?rgn=div1;view=fulltext) by John Pomfret. The bit about the raven and blackness is a Shakespearean version of pot vs. kettle :)


End file.
